


cuz i was filled with poison (but blessed with beauty and rage)

by Anonymous



Category: Bon Jovi
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Arranged Marriage, Discrimination, Dubious Consent, M/M, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-13 14:26:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13572468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Jon was never a "good" omega.





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to Rockfic under an alternate title. This is the original.
> 
> I never saw any A/B/O Jovi stuff so I decided to give it a go. First time posting something online in almost two years + first time writing for this ship/fandom so please have patience with me. English is not my native language.

Jon was never a “good” omega.

He was never the chaste, pure, blushing little sweetheart eager to fall to his knees and submit to whoever stood above him, nor was he the type to stand down and let the big boys take charge - because to him, there were none bigger than him and he’d be damned if he let them delude themselves into thinking they were.

Since the dawning of adolescence he had been a troubled youth, refusing to let the societal norms and unspoken limitations placed upon his kind define him - from his provocative choice of dress to his vulgar style of living and sardonically potty mouth, he had been a brewing tempest waiting to erupt; an erratic mystery waiting, yet refusing, to unravel. 

He dressed gaudily in tops with plunging necklines so deep they practically reached his navel, skintight pants slashed all the way up to his hips in broad, overlapping gashes and smudged kohl drawn in feline strokes framing disarmingly blue eyes that belied the troubled babe’s true depravity. His seemingly compulsive penchant for drinking, smoking, hooking up with random males and females alike and getting high off his ass any chance he got had become a recurring pattern, hurling insults at anyone who dared cross him like a bad-tempered cat. 

Even as he had formally reached adulthood he had yet to break out of the aftershocks of his rowdy teenage years, though it did make sense in a way since an omega was not considered ‘of age’ until they were wed and once they were it was their partner who pulled the reins. To his parents this was both a blessing and a curse - on one hand they still had financial control over him so he couldn’t destroy their reputation completely or else he’d get cut off or locked up; on the other they were stuck with him until they found a proper mate to put up with him. 

Jon knew his parents were eager to marry him off to the first mildly affluent alpha they could find in order to have him out of their hair, yet he was oddly confident that the day would never come. He went out of his way to be as unattractive to potential mates as his sultry looks would allow, after all - a gaudy, foul-mouthed primadonna scantily clad in all black and messy makeup.

–

Ever since he was first made aware of the shortcomings pertaining to his rather specific brand of biology during the tender years of early middle school, he had fought the reality of his unfortunate situation with all his might.

He still recalled, with a mix of distaste and dread, the palpable awkwardness in the immediate aftermath of the appointment that had sealed his fate, wherein Lemma had hesitated to touch him, would attempt to treat him with the delicacy one might a small child, petite girl or a frail animal, and the realization that everything had changed between them had struck him more savagely than any physical blow ever could. 

( _David, in turn, would never forget the look of sorrow, anger and pure betrayal he was met with by his childhood friend and long-time playmate - how those sky blue eyes had hardened even as they were glazed over with unshed tears, boring into his own eyes like twin daggers and haunting his dreamless sleep for countless nights to follow._ )

–

From the day his world had begun to shift and crumble, something from deep within his core had begun to blossom out of his withering self and a depraved creature veiled in filth and shadows had come alive. It was difficult to pinpoint exactly, the stage in the transformation wherein the doe-eyed little boy had morphed into the provocative hellcat he would later become, though a perceptive soul may suggest the innocent, blue-eyed little fawn of a child had never truly dissipated.

–

In a way, he figured it was how he had handled the realization of what he was. Growing up, Jon had envisioned himself to become powerful, a natural-born leader, like he could rule the world - a blazing little thing with more dreams and aspirations than he could begin to put into words, longing for the day he could turn them into reality.

Perhaps it was an undying desire to overcome himself, to stand at the top of the world and know he’d accomplished everything he desired as a self-made man, or perhaps it was his unquenchable thirst for freedom and independence that was eating him alive every hour of every day since he had realized that he may never truly have it, that had instigated his descent into moral and physical corruption.

He would never be the alpha male he felt in his heart that he should have been, or perhaps it was the societal structure rather than his biological makeup that prevented him from fully accepting his status and lot in life - for was it really a fault of his body, or was it a fault of the way society would come to interact with him because of it?

It was like a pledge he had made to himself when young, a vow he had sworn to never break: he would never let anyone treat him as less than equal, never let anyone treat him like an omega - because within the society he had always and would always know, those two things were all but synonymous.

–

He was not submissive by any stretch of the imagination - no one got to tame him, no one got to boss him around and no one _like fucking **hell**_ got to best him. He was insurmountable. He had to be, because otherwise he would lose his last shred of self-reassurance - the world didn’t need to know that he was clinging onto that conviction with the skin of his teeth.

He may have been cursed with a biological plight that worked to stifle his true potential as a member of the male species, but he would never let the limitations of biology, nor those put in place by society, tie him down - his freedom was something he would never give up. No one would ever get to rob him of that… and deep in his heart, he genuinely believed that day would never come.

It was almost cute, from an outsider’s perspective, how someone could go out of their way to be as rowdy, provocative and obscene as they could possibly try to be, yet remain so utterly naïve to the true workings of the world around them.

Omegas did not have a say in the way other members of society did. They were modeled by biology and society alike to be eternal followers, to submit to whichever alpha chose to stake their claim on them and to produce offspring at whichever rate their mate saw fit.

–

He was all teeth and claws, scratching, biting, brutalizing anyone he got intimate with as they would do to him - because why was he expected to just lie down and take it? Why couldn’t he stake his claim just as they did? Why did he have to lie down and be compliant while they treated him as well than a piece of meat?

Of course, it rarely earned him a positive response.

Caresses turned to stinging slaps and the occasional punch by a clenched fist, hickeys turned to bruises and playful nips turned to bloody flesh wounds… 

But that was all okay because he had made his statement - 

He was not an object.

He was not going to give in to anyone - not his mind, not his body, not his independence and not his freedom.

He was no-one’s to claim.

He would never belong to anyone.

Nobody would ever take him, change him or break him down.

No one would make him their home, and no-one would ever become his.

He was free, off-limits and beyond the point of scavenging.

**_This house is not for sale._ **


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie wasn't most alphas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I genuinely did not expect to get any response to this haha; I'm glad to see the Ao3 Jovi fandom isn't completely dead...
> 
> Oh, and I forgot to mention this in the first chapter but the title of this work is derived from the lyrics of the song 'Ultraviolence' by LDR.

Richie wasn’t most alphas.

Where other men of his status may have devoted themselves to being the domineering, self-absorbed, patronizing assholes society had conditioned them to believe they were justified in being, he savored the simplicity of sauntering through life without a second glance at whichever expectations others tried to live up to, whichever cravings for success and affluence they tried to satiate - because Richard Stephen Sambora had the glorious luxury of being whoever the fuck he wanted, wherever the fuck he wanted, however the fuck he wanted.

He owed the abstract cage of society, of the world, nothing. 

He had rejected it all - the superficial expectations, the inherent “duty” of becoming a monster of power and wealth, the world order that sought to turn him into the very incarnation of all the braindead, money-hungry, shallow bastardy he had come to despise with every fiber of his being; the very fabric of a society that could give him nearly everything in the effect of affluence and material gain yet would also suck the very soul, his very _essence_ , out of him.

He had rejected it, and so it had rejected him in return: a mutual grudge, mutual indifference or mutual pity, Richie wasn’t sure.

He had been disowned and kicked to the curb for it.

And so, he had hit the road and never looked back.

 

He was free.

He had nothing tying him down, nothing holding him back from pursuing whatever he desired - nothing to prove, nothing to live up to, nothing to fulfill beyond the lifelong pursuit of his own dreams. 

Alphas were meant to stand tall, stable, unrelenting and all-powerful.

Richie was crooked, a lost soul living out of his guitar case and a mellow spirit as ephemeral and fickle as the smoke from an abandoned cigar.

 

He was a natural in every sense of the word - an effortlessly skilled musician, a raw talent, raw with gaping flaws laid bare to the world, never having bothered to smooth any of them over.

He was a stoic and a hedonist all the same; indulging in the delectables of life with little reservation, largely indifferent to the inevitabilities of love and hatred, pleasure and suffering, living hard, dying young. He was content, unapologetic and unhinged, entirely unperturbed by the shackles of societal hierarchies.

He belonged nowhere, instead turning the bare slate of _everywhere_ into his partiture – 

_I used to be a dreamer_

– chasing stars under a cloudy black sky – 

_But my dreams have burned_

– nothing more than a jaded dreamer who had turned the open road into his stage.

 

It was a humble profession, barely scraping by as a freelance musician rotating around the pubs of whatever Jersey town he found himself in, providing the bare minimum for survival yet granting him all that he needed to stay functional: good booze, a place to jam and pretty little things who flocked to him after each night’s gig like moths to a flame. All things considered, getting paid real (albeit modest) cash for simply messing around on the guitar was a pretty sweet deal.

It was a comfortable standard of living - existing with all the perks that doing so entailed without the exertion usually involved in the effort of staying alive, in forcing ends to meet. He did what he enjoyed and was able to make a living off of of it. Few were that lucky and in the more sentimental corners of his conscience he never forgot that, never forgot to be grateful. 

Sometimes he had to stop just to ask himself - could he ever survive without it? If he couldn’t live off of his guitar, would he even be alive? His mind never strayed too long on that particular thought because it was irrelevant, and luckily he always had a bottle to keep him company on those days. His permanent access to alcohol was indeed a blessing, even as there were little demons in his mind mocking him for his merciful truth.

He had what he wanted, took what he wanted, indulged in whatever he desired in the moment, for he lived within each moment as though it were a lifetime in its own right and nothing preceding nor ensuing mattered.

_Guitar. Booze. Pussy._

_Pause. Rewind. Replay._

_Rinse and Repeat._

It was all he knew.

It was all he desired.

It was all he needed.

And with his hand on a heart that was steadily blackening from too many cigarettes, Richie had genuinely never anticipated any of that to ever change.

 

The feeling of the strings against his fretting fingers, the delicate feel of the plectrum between his hardened fingertips as he struck each chord, the ringing of the licks that had become his very life force; they were all that kept him alive as oxygen had long lost its purpose to him. With his heart ablaze, his mind reveling in the euphoric high of each song that meant more to him than the very fabric of existence itself - those were the precious minutes, seconds, that he were alive and _felt_ it.

He could only ever imitate that burn with the sting of liquor, an entirely different form of intoxication that was no less welcome. He knew he would keep playing until his fingers bled, the strings snapped and the guitar’s lustrous body had faded, cracked and burst, just as he would keep on drinking until his body combusted as his vital organs caved under the succulent burn of that sweet satiation. 

_I’m just a victim of circumstance_

It was comforting to think about from time to time, whenever it seemed as though everything was over and he could no longer go on, and it also had a grim sort of irony to it. For wouldn’t it be suitable for him to die by the very fuel that had kept him alive for so long? He supposed it would be little different than overdosing on life itself.

 

He wandered in the darkness of a city that had long fallen asleep, the soft veil of solitude and dead of night his only companions. The pitch black, starless sky he had grown so familiar with over the years had taken on a somber, dark grey hue, as if to warn him of its impending submission to its own selfish sorrows.

_Midnight rain is coming down_

It wasn’t long until he could feel those delicate droplets of late summer rain and he sighed into it, welcoming the cool caress as it soothed his still burning skin.

_Midnight **pain** is coming down_

It was always once the aftershocks of the night’s show had passed, when all the songs were played and his sobriety was long gone yet the best pang of the alcohol had yet to kick in, that the worst blunt of it all hit him. It encroached upon his weakening mind and sucked the life out of him ever so tenderly, _excruciatingly_ , as if to underline just how far gone, how far beyond the point of redemption, he really was.

It was him, all of it – 

_I mean no danger_

The cold of night, the solitude of having - _needing_ \- nothing beyond the guitar case protectively clutched in a barely shaking hand, the dip between the high of the stage and the peak of the alcohol -

_I’m a stranger_

A broken man chasing a long lost dream in a faraway place under the cold sheen of midnight rain and a tapestry of starless darkness.

**_I’m just a stranger in this town._ **


End file.
